


Of Men and Dogs

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Dog Soldiers (2002)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief history of Cooper's love/hate relationship with canines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Men and Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kezya

 

 

_Age nine._

Cooper never really was all that big a fan of dogs.

If asked point-blank, he'd never admit it; it was these kinds of weaknesses that the bullies used to their advantage when it came to taking the piss out of you. And one in particular, called Simon Reginald - a larger boy with a bit of an acne problem - seemed to have it out for him.

Simon's dog, a pitbull terrier called Trigger, was hardly any better.

When Cooper limps home from grammar school one day, left trouser leg torn and bleeding, his mother doesn't believe that he didn't start the fight, that Simon purposely sicced that beast on him, that Cooper had to drop his geography book in the mud puddle because he had no _choice_.

That the idiot dog seemed to be _smiling_ before it sunk its jaws into his ankle.

_Age fifteen._

Sara Lincoln, with her loud, hiccuping laugh and tall, lanky frame, is his first real girlfriend, although that particular relationship will only last for less than a year. They'd been going together since the eighth of September when Sara decided they should celebrate their one-month anniversary. Although Cooper finds it to be a bit of a ludicrous idea, he doesn't argue - never argues - and after dinner at Mitchell's Pub, he takes her to the cinema for the evening.

The Rialto is a privately owned theatre by an older man named Junkins, who has kind eyes and a scratchy ginger beard. The latest in film technology is never playing; instead, silent stars and monsters of imports and cult classics from ages ago lurk behind his single screen.

Best of all, he charges only a pound fifty a ticket.

As they make their way down the street, Sara is laughing as usual, cheeks pink and looking lovely in her raggedy hunter green jacket, and Cooper is in good spirits as well as he pays for their tickets and buys a box of popcorn and a bag of liquorice to split between them.

The title of the film is _An American Werewolf in London._

As they exit the theatre, a quiet transformation has come over him. He's no longer laughing, although for the better part of the beginning of the film, he and Sara were giggling quite merrily at nearly every one-liner that passed from the actors' lips. Now, he's almost somber, staring straight ahead as they pass Mitchell's again and Sara is reciting the

"Do you think it hurt?" he asks, abruptly, and Sara giggles at that, too, until she realises he is not quoting the film. She blinks, then her eyes narrow, studying him.

" _What_ hurt?"

Cooper gestures uselessly, attempting to explain himself better as his fingers form claws and he bares his teeth in a poor attempt at pantomime, but he's not trying to make her laugh again, so he quickly drops his arms again and continues in a rush.

"When he-- you know, transformed. Into a werewolf."

Sara bites down on her lip, trying to determine if he's having her on or not. "Well, he was screaming quite a bit, so I'd assume so, wouldn't you?" When he doesn't match her grin, she flicks her bangs out of her eyes and stares him down, compelling him to defend himself.

"I'm not trying to act _dumb_ , Sara! I mean--" he stutters, pausing. "I mean, I'm only saying that it looked sort of... painful," he finishes lamely, avoiding her gaze.

"It was just a film, Coop. My dad always says that the horror films are the ones that always go straight to your head and turn you mad." She reaches out for his hand. Squeezes it. "I'm not going to have to call you an ambulance, am I?"

He smiles and nods, squeezing her hand back in reflex, but it's not long after he's walked her home and stolen a brief kiss good night that he's lying in his bed, unable to fall asleep.

Counting out patterns on the plaster ceiling above him can only occupy his mind for so long before his thoughts drift back towards the film and the idea of werewolves. Slowly - so slowly, he's almost unaware he is doing it - his hands float up to his face, fingers pushing at his cheekbones, testing the space between his eyesockets and the cartilage in his nose, trying to imagine just how it would feel if it all began morphing to form a snout, fangs, and an inhuman face. Accompanying this new epiphany is a gruesome bone-grinding sound that he doesn't like at all.

So it's all fiction. That doesn't make the idea any less horrifying.

Flopping onto his side and burying his face into his pillow, he scowls. It's stupid, really, to be so torn up over some stupid American import film that probably didn't even do that well at the box office when it was initially released, anyway, but Sara notices the change in him, too, and at the end of term, leaves him for a rugby player named David McCormick.

_Age twenty-eight._

He doesn't want to turn back around, but feels compelled to, almost--

The smell of charred flesh and charcoaled rubble is invading his nostrils, but Cooper strides back with a purpose, the silver glint lying amidst the rubbish attracting his eye before he quickly pockets it and makes his way back, Sam whinging softly at his heels. The metal object in his pocket brings with it a comforting weight, and he takes it from his pocket for a moment, turning it over and over in his hand before it replacing it again.

Sarge's watch.

He tries not to think about if Sarge experienced the same pain that the man in that film did when he transformed, limbs twisting and molding themselves into terrible new shapes while helpless to do anything but wait for it to be over, screams yielding to howls.

As if privy to these thoughts, he hears a familiar voice in the back of his mind shouting at him.

_When you're done admiring the bleeding view and waxing philosophical, why don't you do yourself a favour and get the fuck out of here?_

He half raises a hand in salute, attempting a weak smile.

_Right you are, Sarge._

He glances down at Sam for the briefest of seconds, the wreckage of the flat smoldering behind them. He doesn't bother whistling, but it doesn't really matter because the Australian Shepherd isn't about to be left behind. It trots beside him as he walks off into the distance, unsure of which direction to take but certain that just about anywhere is better than here.

 

 

 


End file.
